Enclosed
by Smilers and Winders
Summary: What happens when Sherlock and John are trapped in a shack the size of a cubicle, and the great detective has a phobia of closed-in spaces? Johnlock or awkward friendship, however you read it.


**_Disclaimer: Nope, nope, nope. I don't own John or Sherlock or Mycroft or the briefly shown Lestrade. That's all BBC, Gatiss (Godtiss), and Moffat (the Moff)._****_now read. kthxbai_**

John wheezed, hands on his knees, as Sherlock's face darkened. The duo had been bolting down the pavements after a quite gruesome gang involved in the most recent case, when Sherlock had came to an abrupt halt in front of an alley, John tumbling and skittering past him, his momentum not yet worn off from the running. He backed up and looked at Sherlock as his friend began to mutter the three dry words.

"We've lost them." Sherlock adjusted his mussed scarf.

"Lost them?" John echoed.

"I can't see them. They could have gone anywhere. There's turns in every bloody spot!" he whispered angrily, spitting the words. John groaned and shook his head. "It's no use, Sherlock! We might as well wait for more back-up, and…well, try again later," John ended weakly, aching for the (mostly) peaceful residence of 221b again.

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes, I think yer friend is right. It's no use," came a laughing voice that broke the quiet London night air.

The two automatically spun, their backs now to the streets and their fronts to the alley, only to be clutched tightly by rough hands and their arms uncomfortably grasped and bound with rope behind them, dragged back into the darkness of the passage way. Both of the gang members raised a switchblade to their necks.

"Move, and you're both gone," John's captor warned. John pressed his lips together, finding the moment very uncomfortable and very much wanting to panic and lash out. The men continued their jobs by removing all of Sherlock and John's items from their coat and trouser pockets. Phones, wallets, flat keys, a gum wrapper, all fell to the ground of the dirty alley.

"Oh, lovely. You're killing us, now?" commented Sherlock with bravado. "What an effort it would be on my part," he said in a lower voice, narrowing his eyes.

There were four men, each more burly than the other and all wearing a mask of anger and amusement. The man who was the very first to comment (immediately before they were held hostage, that is), presumably the leader, smirked at walked up to Sherlock.

"I've heard of you, Mr. 'olmes. Yes, I 'ave! Seen you in the papers - funny 'at, the deerstalker! I like it. Where'd you get it?"

Sherlock kept his silence, staring at the man.

"Well, I think it's time to lock up shop, don't you think, guys? It was a pleasure, Mr. 'olmes," he said with a twisted smile. Sherlock's eyebrows twitched downward, as if figuring out what would happen to them now. John was panting from the fright and looking over at Sherlock repeatedly, as if, if he could look enough, they would be back in 221b, sipping tea by the makeshift fireplace.

"How do you feel about tight spaces?" growled John's captor. John wanted to make a sly remark, but knew if he did he could regret it the moment it passed his lips. He glanced at his flatmate again, with sudden worry treading through his eyes. There was something strange about Sherlock when John's captor had made that comment. His breathing seemed to have quickened, his hands balled into fists, as if resisting emotion. Yet his face had yet to betray him.

The thugs led Sherlock and John off into an incredibly small shack, around the size of their bathroom at the flat, or a cubicle at an office. There were no windows, and it was vacant. The only thing left inside were dead insects on the wooden floor. It was made entirely of bricks; mind the door, which was made of steel. Sherlock tensed when he saw this. _It's small, much too small. This is not good,_ the detective told himself. _Not good not good not good not good. Nothing to call for help, either. Chances are (chances being 63%), I will manage to lose control inside the tiny bloody thing and end up with an anxiety attack. No escaping, unless there happens to be an extra key –_

Sherlock and John were sent hurling inside the shack and against the wall, and the men took off, locking the steel door and laughing to themselves and walking off, speaking of dead wives and Christmas dinners.

Sherlock looked up to the ceiling, the walls, the floor, feeling dizzy. John was already trying to break the door down by slamming his side into it and cursing like a teenager and cradling his forearm when he gave up. Sherlock's breath hitched and started at an irregular pace as he stood, fists clenched, pupils blown with fright. His veins were filled with paranoia.

"Sherlock?" said John, inching closer. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Fine."

The detective nearly jumped at the hand settling on his shoulder. "Actually, I have to get out," he whined, now warily watching the walls.

"Sherlock, what is it? Are you okay? We're going to get out, okay? I promise."

Sherlock suddenly ran to a corner of the shack, dragging John with him as he slumped to the ground, knees up to his chin, looking like a child with an angry father hovering over him. He whimpered slightly, and John became very worried. "Hey, Sher—?"

"John, get down, over here. Now." Sherlock's voice wavered.

"Sherlock, what's happening? I can't see it."

"Th- The… walls. The walls are closing in. The walls are falling on us. They're closing in. Oh, god."

Oh.

Stupid, _stupid,_ bumbling John. He should have known.

Sherlock was claustrophobic.

And now he was having an anxiety attack. Or the first steps to one, at least.

John kneeled down in front of the shaking dark figure and put both hands on his shoulders.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

Sherlock tore his eyes from the walls, eyes still big as the moon to face John.

"You're having an anxiety attack. It's perfectly normal for people who have claustrophobia. I want you to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Try to stop shaking."

"No," said Sherlock abruptly, shaking his head, his gaze now on the floor. "We're going to die now, aren't we, John?" he huffed. Sherlock stood up and shuffled to the opposite corner of the room with what felt dangerous as walking a log over Niagara Falls. Shaking like a madman, Sherlock curled into a ball and rocked back and forth. When this wasn't enough, he stood up, stretching both arms to their sides and braced both hands on the walls, knees wobbling, eyes howling with fright. John walked toward him, hands once again on his shoulders, still hovering above him. "Sherlock, you're fine. We're fine. Sit down, take some deep, slow breaths, please," John said in his comforting doctor-to-patient voice. Letting go of his shoulders, Sherlock and John both crouched down once again, and he sat next to Sherlock's side, a comforting hand massaging his shoulder.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quietly. "I haven't had one of these since I was in university," he admitted.

"It's fine, just breathe, Sherlock."

Sherlock took three shaky breaths before starting to hyperventilate again, and started clawing at John's arm. "Sherlock? Sherlock! It's okay now. It's me, John." Sherlock froze at the notion, and suddenly collapsed upon John's shorter body, his eyes glistening with fear, and tears freeing themselves from his eyes and streaming down his cheekbones. John jumped, but then pulled the taller man in to wrap him in his arms, swaying him and shushing him like a mother to a child. How were they going to get help now? John was worried for Sherlock, who was panicking and almost weeping in his arms, and they didn't have their mobiles now. He continued rocking Sherlock and assuring him the walls were perfectly intact, when they heard the knock on the door and Sherlock lashed out as John tried to hold him down gently, petting his wayward dark curls.

"Is anyone in there?" Mycroft's voice rang loud and clear.

John sighed. Sherlock still looked frightened, a bit angry, maybe, too.

"Yes, us," John replied in a relieved voice.

"Are you hurt? How is Sherlock? It seems to be quite a…confined space."

"No, we're not really hurt. Just some scratches and bruises. And, uh, Sherlock is…he's been better."

Mycroft gave a noise of disgust and resentment - possibly towards his brother - before speaking again.

"We'll have you out in two minutes, Dr. Watson. Ambulance is on its way, Sherlock."

Sherlock perked up a bit at Mycroft's voice, but when he heard the word "ambulance", he slunk down to the floor again, shaking in John's arms. John winced as Sherlock's hair tumbled and blocked his eyesight, but said nothing.

Two minutes of awkward comforting later, the door lock was picked and a respectable looking man stepped in, taking Sherlock by both arms. The man didn't mind that Sherlock was struggling and was frightened, and just told John to come along.

Once they had made it outside, Sherlock fell to his knees, gasping. John rushed over, kneeling beside him, petting his back.

The elder Holmes strode over to were Sherlock had fallen, umbrella placidly set upon the ground, leaning quite smugly against it, though his face with stricken with grief for his brother. Glaring at the soiled ground, he gave his umbrella to Anthea, who was beside him, and squat down next to Sherlock with sympathetic eyes.

"You must remember, dear brother, that it's been quite a while since your last panic attack," he said dryly, an ambulance wailing in the background. The sound grew closer. Sherlock looked up at his brother, still gasping. "How – how did you know…where we were?" he asked brokenly.

Mycroft looked frustrated with Sherlock for a second. "Because I heard you were fighting with one of the most notorious gangs in London, Sherlock." His face returned to normality as the ambulance parked. "We tracked your phones and followed whatever tracks we could."

Sherlock looked down and then back up again, stuttering, still having after-shocks from his attack. When Mycroft had stood up and walked away, Sherlock scratched at John's arms again and fell into his lap desperately, clutching John's jumper with his fists. His breathing had hitched up again and he was starting to hyperventilate for the third time. "Oh, God," John sighed as his incorrect breathing pattern returned. He once again pulled Sherlock in for a cuddle and held him tightly, rubbing soothing drawings on his back. Sherlock's dark hair got in John's mouth and John spit it out with annoyance, still keeping his hold on Sherlock.

Four men with a stretcher walked out of the back of the ambulance, taking Sherlock up from John's arms (he was getting tired of holding him, anyway) and laying him on the stretcher. The dark-coat man started to lash out frantically once again, seeing that there were four men, just like in the gang, and had to be held down as they placed a mask on his face to regulate his breathing when his struggles died down. The doors to the ambulance closed and soon enough they had drove off with John's best friend in stow. He sighed and turned around to see if Mycroft was still there, and was instead surprised to see Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and another man he didn't know, about five feet away from him. He walked over to them, not really wanting to stand alone in this.

"So, nice night, isn't it," John said with a tired frown. Lestrade looked over at him.

"Hey, John. What…happened, anyway? Anxiety attack?"

John looked at the shack, and then back to Lestrade, lowering his voice and nodding his head. "Claustrophobia," he mumbled. Lestrade nodded. "He told me that, in the early days. Said it wasn't likely to happen and if it did, it would be no big deal. Kind of forgot about it. He never brought it up again."

There was a pause, and then John asked, "You didn't happen to get them, did you?"

Lestrade sighed impatiently. "We got three of them. There's one still on the loose, but I doubt he'd do so much harm. Maybe, when Sherlock gets discharged, and if he's up to it, he can plan another stake-out."

"He'd like that."

"Why don't you tell him?"

"I will."

As it turned out, Sherlock was discharged the next day, at 14:30. John ended up taking a cab over to the hospital and helping him back to the flat ("I _don't_ need help!" "I'm perfectly able to _walk_, John." "Oh, for _gods' sake_…" Sherlock retorted these several times.) as John explained what happened last night. As he re-told the story, Sherlock found himself blushing and huffing at himself in the situation. "And then you really liked cuddling with me, Sherlock," John said at one point in the story, chuckling. Sherlock looked disgusted and quickly apologised for his actions. "It's fine. I would've done the same, hell to them who would talk," John said without thinking.

The two men found themselves both a bit red after _that _remark.

**Fin.**

**Author's note: Hello! This is my...first...real fanfic. I mean I read them a lot, but publishing one is so much different. Awful title choice, apologies. (at least i didn't go with "trapped") Sorry if it's terrible! And hooray if you happened to enjoy it! R&R please and thank you **


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